Then my essay, "Infantile Diseases of the Earthworm" is in Berlin for translation, as it is to be issued at the same time in Germany and the United States.

"The Moral Regeneration of the Rat," and "Intellectual Idiosyncracies of Twin Clams," are resting till I can get up my Sanscrit and Arabic, for I wish these researches to be exhaustive.
He added two poems which I am not selfish enough to keep to myself.
GOLDEN ROD O! Golden Rod! Thou garish, gorgeous gush Of passion that consumes hot summer's heart! O! yellowest yolk of love! in yearly hush I stand, awe sobered, at thy burning bush Of Glory, glossed with lustrous and illustrious art, And moan, why poor, so poor in purse and brain I am, While thou into thy trusting treasury dost seem to cram Australia, California, Sinai and Siam.
And the other such a capital burlesque of the modern English School with its unintelligible parentheses: ASTER I kissed her all day on her red, red mouth (Cats, cradles and trilobites! Love is the master!) Too utterly torrid, a sweet, spicy South (Of compositae, fairest the Aster.) Stars shone on our kisses--the moon blushed warm (Ursa major or minor, Pollux and Castor!) How long the homeward! And where was my arm?
(Crushed, crushed at her waist was the Aster!) No one kisses me now--my winter has come: (To ice turns fortune when once you have passed her.) I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum) (For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!) [Illustration: PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES] Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems.
A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost every woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of the odour of a good cigar." DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered and gone, And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on, In the times when he's idle or thoughtful, When he's lonesome, jolly or blue, And he fingers his useless matches, What is a poor fellow to do?
For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is gathered in; From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin; A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two; In this female republic of virtue, What is a poor fellow to do?
He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea, And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he may be; But when the mild cheese has been passed, and the chocolate mint drops are few, And the coffee comes in and he hankers, What is a poor fellow to do?
It's all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine grows, And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their clothes; No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly crew; If _this_ is heaven, and he gets there, What is a poor fellow to do?
He'll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break jail, With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet's tail; He'll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory's spell, He'll go back on the women who saved him, And ask for a ticket to _Hell_! An exact description of the usual happenings at "Breezy" in the beginning, by my only sister, Mrs.Babcock, who was devoted to me and did more than anyone to help to develop the Farm.

I feel that this chapter must be the richer for two of her poems.
LIGHT AND SHADE AT "BREEZY MEADOWS" FARM This charming May morning we'll walk to the grove! And give the dear dogs all a run; Over the meadows 'tis pleasant to rove And bask in the light of the sun.
Last night a sly fox took off our best duck! Run for a gun! there a hen hawk flies! We always have the very worst of luck, The anxious mistress of the chickens cries.
We stop to smell the lilacs at the gate, And watch the bluebirds in the elm-tree's crest-- The finest farm it is in all the state, Which corner of it do you like the best?
Just think! a rat has eaten ducklings two, Now isn't that a shame! pray set a trap! The downiest, dearest ones that ever grew, I think this trouble will climax cap! At "Sun Flower Rock," in joy we stand to gaze; The distant orchard, flowering, show so fair: Surely my dear, abandoned farming pays, How heavenly the early morning air! Now only see! those horrid hens are scratching! They tear the Mountain Fringe so lately set! Some kind of mischief they are always hatching, Why did I ever try a hen to pet?
Here's "Mary's Circle," and the birches slender, And Columbine which grows the rocks between, Red blossoms showing in a regal splendour! We must be happy in this peaceful scene.
The puppies chew the woodbine and destroy The dainty branches sprouting on the wall! How can the little wretches so annoy?
There's Solomon Alphonzo--worst of all! Now we will go to breakfast--milk and cream, Eggs from the farm, surely it is a treat! How horrid city markets really seem When one can have fresh things like these to eat! What?
Nickodee has taken all the hash?
And smashed the dish which lies upon the floor! I thought just now I heard a sudden crash! And it was he who slammed the kitchen door! By "Scare Crow Road" we take our winding way, Tiger and Jerry in the pasture feed.
See, Mary,--what a splendid crop of hay! Now, don't you feel that this is joy indeed?
The incubator chickens all are dead! Max fights with Shep, he scorns to follow me! Some fresh disaster momently I dread; Is that a skunk approaching ?--try to see! Come Snip and Snap and give us song and dance! We'll have a fire and read the choicest books, While the black horses waiting, paw and prance! And see how calm and sweet all nature looks.
So goes the day; the peaceful landscape smiles; At times the live stock seems to take a rest.
But fills our hearts with worry other whiles! We think each separate creature is possessed! MARY W.BABCOCK.
[Illustration: PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK] THE OLD WOMAN The little old woman, who wove and who spun, Who sewed and who baked, did she have any fun?
In housewifely arts with her neighbour she'd vie, Her triumph a turkey, her pleasure a pie! She milked and she churned, and the chickens she fed, She made tallow dips, and she moulded the bread.
No club day annoyed her, no program perplext, No themes for discussion her calm slumber vexed.
By birth D.A.R.or Colonial Dame, She sought for no record to blazon her fame-- No Swamies she knew, she cherished no fad, Of healing by science, no knowledge she had.
She anointed with goose grease, she gave castor oil, Strong sons and fair daughters rewarded her toil.
She studied child nature direct from the child, And she spared not the rod, though her manner was mild.
All honour be paid her, this heroine true, She laid the foundation for things we call new! Her hand was so strong, and her brain was so steady, That for the New Woman she made the world ready.
MARY W.BABCOCK.
[Illustration: THE ISLAND WHICH WE MADE] Here is one of the several parodies written by my brother while interned in a log camp in the woods of New Brunswick, during a severe day's deluge of rain.

It was at the time when Peary had recently reached the North Pole, and Dr.Cook had reported his remarkable observations of purple snows: DON'T YOU HEAR THE NORTH A-CALLIN'?
Ship me somewhere north o' nowhere, where the worst is like the best; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, an' a man can get a rest; Where a breeze is like a blizzard, an' the weather at its best; Dogs and Huskies does the workin' and the Devil does the rest.
On the way to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play, And the day is slow a-comin', slower Still to go away.
There I seen a walrus baskin'-- bloomin' blubber to the good; Could I 'it 'im for the askin'?
Well--I missed 'im where he stood.
Ship me up there, north o' nowhere, where the best is like the worst; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, and the last one gets there first.
Take me back to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play; And the night is long a-comin', when it Comes, it comes to stay.
[Illustration: TAKA'S TEA HOUSE AT LILY POND] THE WOMAN WITH THE BROOM _A Mate for "The Man With The Hoe."_ (Written after seeing a farmer's wife cleaning house.) Bowed by the cares of cleaning house she leans Upon her broom and gazes through the dust.
A wilderness of wrinkles on her face, And on her head a knob of wispy hair.
Who made her slave to sweeping and to soap, A thing that smiles not and that never rests, Stanchioned in stall, a sister to the cow?
Who loosened and made shrill this angled jaw?
Who dowered this narrowed chest for blowing up Of sluggish men-folks and their morning fire?
Is this the thing you made a bride and brought To have dominion over hearth and home, To scour the stairs and search the bin for flour, To bear the burden of maternity?
Is this the wife they wove who framed our law And pillared a bright land on smiling homes?
Down all the stretch of street to the last house There is no shape more angular than hers, More tongued with gabble of her neighbours' deeds, More filled with nerve-ache and rheumatic twinge, More fraught with menace of the frying-pan.
O Lords and Masters in our happy land, How with this woman will you make account, How answer her shrill question in that hour When whirlwinds of such women shake the polls, Heedless of every precedent and creed, Straight in hysteric haste to right all wrongs?
How will it be with cant of politics, With king of trade and legislative boss, With cobwebs of hypocrisy and greed, When she shall take the ballot for her broom And sweep away the dust of centuries?
EDWARD W.SANBORN.
NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS New Hampshire Daughters meet tonight With joy each cup is brimmin'; We've heard for years about her men, But why leave out her wimmin?
In early days they did their share To git the state to goin', And when their husbands went to war, Could fight or take to hoein'.
They bore privations with a smile, Raised families surprisin', Six boys, nine gals, with twins thrown in, O, they were enterprisin'.
Yet naught is found their deeds to praise In any book of hist'ry, The brothers wrote about themselves, And--well, that solves the myst'ry.
But now our women take their place In pulpit, court, and college, As doctors, teachers, orators, They equal men in knowledge.
And when another history's writ Of what New Hampshire's done, The women all will get their due, But not a single son.
But no, on sober second thought, We lead, not pose as martyrs, We'll give fair credit to her sons, But not forget her Darters.
KATE SANBORN.
[Illustration: THE LOOKOUT] A little of my (not doggerel) but pupperell to complete the family trio.
Answer to an artist friend who begged for a "Turkey dinner." Delighted to welcome you dear; But you can't have a Turkey dinner! Those fowls are my friends--live here: To eat, not be eat, you sinner! I like their limping, primping mien, I like their raucous gobble; I like the lordly tail outspread, I like their awkward hobble.
Yes, Turkey is my favourite meat, Hot, cold, or rechauffee; *But my own must stay, and eat and eat; You may paint 'em, and so take away.
KATE SANBORN.
[*Metre adapted to the peculiar feet of this bird.] SPRING IN WINTER _A Memory of "Breezy Meadows"_ 'Twas winter--and bleakly and bitterly came The winds o'er the meads you so breezily name; And what tho' the sun in the heavens was bright, 'Twas lacking in heat altho' lavish in light.
And cold were the guests who drew up to your door, But lo, when they entered 'twas winter no more! Without, it might freeze, and without, it might storm, Within, there was welcome all glowing and warm.
And oh, but the warmth in the hostess's eyes Made up for the lack of that same in the skies! And fain is the poet such magic to sing: Without, it was winter--within, it was spring! Yea, spring--for the charm of the house and its cheer Awoke in us dreams of the youth of the year; And safe in your graciousness folded and furled, How far seemed the cold and the care of the world! So strong was the spell that your magic could fling, We _knew_ it was winter--we _felt_ it was spring! Yea, spring--in the glow of your hearth and your board The springtime for us was revived and restored, And everyone blossomed, from hostess to guest, In story and sentiment, wisdom and jest; And even the bard like a robin must sing-- And, sure, after that, who could doubt it was spring! DENIS A.McCARTHY.
_New Year's Day_, 1909.
Mr.McCarthy is associate editor of _The Sacred Heart_, Boston, and a most popular poet and lecturer.
His dear little book, _Voices from Erin_, adorned with the Irish harp and the American shield fastened together by a series of true-love knots, is dedicated "To all who in their love for the new land have not forgotten the old." There is one of these poems which is always called for whenever the author attends any public function where recitations are in order, and I do not wonder at its popularity, for it has the genuine Irish lilt and fascination: "Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring time of the year, When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble With their singing and their winging to and fro; When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant vesture on, And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring; When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance; Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!" I have always wanted to write a poem about my own "Breezy" and the bunch of lilacs at the gate; but not being a poet I have had to keep wanting; but just repeating this gaily tripping tribute over and over, I suddenly seized my pencil and pad, and actually under the inspiration, imitated (at a distance) half of this first verse.
How sweet to be at Breezy in the springtime of the year, With the lilacs all abloom at the gate, And everything so new, so jubilant, so dear, And every little bird is a-looking for his mate.
There, don't you dare laugh! Perhaps another time I may swing into the exact rhythm.
The Rev.William Rankin Duryea, late Professor at Rutgers College, New Brunswick, was before that appointment a clergyman in Jersey City.

His wife told me that he once wrote some verses hoping to win a prize of several hundred dollars offered for the best poem on "Home." He dashed off one at a sitting, read it over, tore it up, and flung it in the waste basket.